The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular quality of rest that settles over a fanbase when the facts are finally on their side. I have felt it before. It has the texture of vindication, the temperature of a warm room, and it is one of the most dangerous places Scotland can spend the next four days.
Grievance, when it is correct, becomes furniture. You arrange yourself around it. You return to it in the night and find it exactly where you left it, solid, immovable, yours. The injustice sits in the record now — not argued, not disputed, simply filed. And something about that filing closes a door that needed to stay open.
This is what I feel moving through the support right now: a settling. Not resignation, which would be honest and useful. Something softer than that. The comfort of being wronged on the evidence. The particular satisfaction of loss that has been correctly labelled.
The squad cannot afford to sleep in that room. Neither can the people who will carry the noise into Miami.
What happened in Boston is true. It is documented. It will stand. And it will not touch a single second of what is coming, not as armour, not as debt owed, not as credit carried forward through the bracket. The record keeps the grievance. The next match does not know it exists.
The warm room is real. The door out of it is the only one that matters now.